


The Gaelic Puzzle

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: Abduction, Counterfeiting, Gen, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:47:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24303133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: Neal Caffrey winds up yet again on the FBI’s Most Wanted List, but it really isn’t his fault. Will Peter’s faith and trust in his friend be enough to save the former criminal?
Relationships: Peter Burke & Neal Caffrey
Comments: 15
Kudos: 34





	1. The Abduction

“I’m tired and my eyes are burning,” I complain to Peter, who basically ignores me and continues to stare at a page in a voluminous file in his lap. We are kicked back on the Burke’s couch in Brooklyn trying to find some tiny lead in an old case.

“It’s a friggin’ cold case, Peter,” I try again. “It’s years old and it’s not going to get any warmer tonight, so let’s pick it up again tomorrow.”

“The damn thing hasn’t moved from frigid to tepid in a long time, and that annoys me,” Peter huffs out a frustrated breath.

I sigh. “Look, Buddy, I know you relish solving things like your crossword puzzles, your challenging anagrams, and lining up all your beloved numbers in a sudoku grid, but give it a rest already.”

Peter finally looks up at me and gives me the patented FBI stare. “Tell me this guy doesn’t intrigue you, Neal.”

I have to admit he’s got me there. The suspected forger, John Killbride, has become a legend in the counterfeiting world and, as a fellow enthusiast of faux whatever, I am a devoted fan. “Well, Killbride is very gifted, and he’s never been caught, so yeah, I’m intrigued.”

“Is he better than you?” Peter asks when he becomes aware of my hero worship.

“Peter, I have to give credit where credit is due. The man is a genius and a virtual Michelangelo of fabrication.”

“He’s been at it a long time,” Peter muses thoughtfully.

“Yeah, I know,” I reply as I dutifully recite the details. “His story began when he immigrated from Ireland years ago and opened an old bookstore here in Manhattan. The business was actually legit if you didn’t count the many manuscript forgeries he created. He perfected the aging of the paper and ink as well as the cording that bound the pages and the paste that adhered them to the cover. He actually foisted off ‘signed’ copies of novels by John Steinbeck, Ernest Hemingway, Mark Twain as well as earlier works by Thomas Paine and even letters supposedly penned by George Washington.”

“Killbride got away with it for a long time,” Peter frowns, “until he decided to branch out into Federal Reserve notes. We believe he was the mastermind behind creating a pseudo plate of the $100 bills produced by the Treasury before the new ones came out in 2013. Then he was suddenly in the wind.”

“I’ll bet a ton of those C-notes are still out there in circulation,” I reply with a smirk. It was just so much fun to wind Peter up.

Peter looks at me dolefully. “I think you may be a bit jealous, Neal.”

“Maybe a tad,” I reluctantly agree as I hold his stare. “But now my days as a very bad criminal are over thanks to you and my trusty ankle monitor.” After that bit of poking the bear, I stand and head for the door. I know Peter is watching my retreating figure as I leave, just as he’ll be checking my tracking app on his phone as I make my way home. Sometimes it’s comforting, in a perverse sort of way, to know that someone is watching. At other times, it’s downright maddening to be observed so closely.

I stroll down the quiet street and summon an Uber with my phone. It pulls abreast of me at the curb almost immediately, and I later realize the timing was definitely off and I should have been more observant. Well, hindsight is 20/20, but right now I can’t see anything because a pillowcase has been pulled down over my head and I’m squeezed into the footwell in the back seat of the vehicle wearing zip ties on my wrists. I feel rough hands on my left ankle and I just know my tracker is about to be removed. I am not disappointed as my link to Peter is severed.

The ride continues for probably at least a half hour, and there are many right and left turns during the journey. Finally, we come to a stop in what I suspect might be an underground garage by the hollow echo I perceive and the smell of motor oil and old auto exhaust. I’m hustled along between two burly men who invade my personal space on both sides. I just keep walking because I have no choice. I’m sure we’ve entered an elevator because I hear an automatic door slide shut and I feel a little lurch as the car begins to rise. I think I’m about to find out the ultimate destination after my abduction.

I’m led into a room where the pillowcase is removed and I gaze around me in what appears to be a small apartment. A man, probably somewhere in his mid-40s, is already seated on a couch with a tumbler of something amber in his hand. “Mr. Caffrey,” he says amiably, “please have a seat and let me apologize for the unorthodox manner that brought you here. Let me make amends by offering you a bit of some very fine whiskey.”

“Maybe later,” I say coldly.

“Well, suit yourself but you’ll be missing out on some excellent Jameson’s. It’s warm and smooth like the inside of a lady’s thigh,” he says with a smile.

“You know who I am, but I’m at a disadvantage,” I challenge.

“Of course you are,” he agrees. “But I’m a good host and want to put you at ease. So, you can call me Del if I can call you Neal.”

“Is that short for Delbert?” I ask snidely. “If so, then perhaps your parents didn’t like you very much if they saddled you with that moniker.”

“My parents liked me just fine,” he says with his smile still in place, refusing to be insulted. “My Mom gave me that name to try to protect me. It’s of English origin, so she wanted an Irish Catholic boy in Belfast to fit in with all the British tyrants. It didn’t work, actually. She died when some stupid Westies set off explosives in our neighborhood and she was killed. My Dad was just a book illustrator by trade and he was never very political, so it made absolutely no sense. My father couldn’t get over his soul mate’s unfathomable death, so the first chance he got he took himself and me far away from the madness to America. I’ve had a pretty good life in my adopted country, so I can’t complain.”

“Thanks for the autobiography regarding your family tree, Del,” I say cynically, “but what does your life story have to do with kidnapping me?”

The man across from me stops smiling. “Kidnapping is perhaps not the right word for your situation,” he says slowly. “In another context, one could say I set you free from your captors. Surely these past years living under the oppression of the FBI haven’t been easy ones. Right now, consider yourself liberated. You can walk out that door—or not,” he teases.

“That seems like an empty offer,” I say as I nod toward the two men who had abducted me blocking the only way out.

“Oh, the two aides over there?” Del arches an eyebrow. “Don’t concern yourself with them. They’re like family.”

“Sure they are,” I say sarcastically. “So, what’s the catch, Del? There’s always a catch,” I say with a frown.

“Not a catch, really, but rather an opportunity,” he shrugs. “You can hear me out and agree to do a little something that’s right in your bailiwick, or you can go back to what may have become a comfortable prison for yourself. I don’t judge, but don’t you want to be your own man, Neal, making your own choices? I’m giving you that chance,” he tempts me with his words.

“Okay, I’m listening,” I finally agree.

“I have ways of finding out information,” he say ominously, “and it has come to my attention that you and your handler, Peter Burke, have decided to pick through an old cold case like scavengers ravaging a landfill. Unfortunately, that ridiculous snooping couldn’t have come at a worse time. I have grand plans in the works and you have put yet another glitch in my objective. Now, if you are agreeable to help me out with just one of my problems, I’ll make sure to get you away safely to wherever you wish to go. South America, Europe, Asia—I can make it happen and you can begin a whole new life. Most likely, the US Marshals have already pegged you as a fugitive, so what have you got to lose except a very heavy yoke from around your neck?”

My mind is working overtime as I listen to Del and his sales pitch. Peter and I have been rehashing John Killbride, who is now probably close to 70 years old. I wonder if this guy could be his son. The pieces all seem to fit, and I’m almost afraid to ask what happened to the old man.

“What exactly do you want me to do for you?” I ask with raised eyebrows.

“Ah, so I have piqued your interest, and that’s a good first step,” Del says with that renewed infuriating smile. “Let me show you around,” he says as he stands and beckons me with his hand.

We traverse the length of the apartment, passing a small bedroom on our way, until we stroll through an arch. I suddenly realize that the wall between an adjacent dwelling has been removed making the space much larger with an additional room. I look around at all the specialized equipment arrayed before me and realize, quite quickly, that I have entered into an Aladdin’s Cave for a counterfeiter. No expense has been spared and I see things that I’ve longed to use in my previous work but could never get my hands on.

“Impressive, isn’t it,” Del says with pride. “Tempted to try out a few of the toys?”

“Maybe,” I say slowly. “But first, let’s lay our cards on the table, my friend. Exactly what do you want me to do for you?”

“Directness—I like that,” my captor laughs. “I’ll be just as blunt. I want you to create a plate for the new $100 dollar bill.”

“That’s become virtually impossible because of all the bells and whistles the Treasury added in 2013,” I reply.

“Yeah, I know,” he agrees. “I’ve been told the raised printing over Franklin’s shoulder may not be an issue and neither is the faint portrait of him embedded in the watermark, but all the other holograph stuff presents a challenge.”

“Exactly,” I agree. “The color shifting bell on the copper inkwell changes hues as the bill is tilted in the light, and so does the numeral 100. By far, the biggest stumbling block is the blue security strip running down the middle of the bill. It’s actually woven into the fabric rather than superimposed on top, and it contains images of liberty bells that change to the number 100 as the bill is moved from side to side.”

“You know your currency,” Del says in approval. “But I also think I know you. You’re a perfectionist who likes a challenge, and you get a high when you can outsmart the brightest minds and thumb your nose at the system. I’ve made myself quite familiar with your work before I ever decided to recruit you, and I was very impressed. I believe you can do this if you are willing to give it a whirl.”

I think about my suspicions and decide to take a chance and just put it out there. “If you want the best, why don’t you ask your father to do the work for you. You are John Killbride’s son, aren’t you?”

“I knew you were a very smart man, and I thought you would eventually figure it out,” Del remarks with a grin.

“So, answer my question,” I insist. “Why can’t your own flesh and blood do your dirty work? He’s done it before, so why not now?”

“He would, if he could,” a son agrees. “But Dad has gotten on in years and he has issues that prevent a new undertaking of this magnitude.”

“Care to explain?” I say as I push the envelope.

“In a word—Parkinson’s,” Del says quietly. “Even though he’s on medication to help with the tremors, it’s gotten quite advanced and it’s hard for him to come to terms with being disabled. I make sure that he lacks for nothing and is comfortable. Actually, those two men who brought you here really are aides who help with his care 24/7. They’re devoted to him. Some days, Dad gets very bitter about his situation and all the expenses that are necessary for his wellbeing. But I’m never going to put him in a nursing home, so the answer to my problem is to refill the coffers and continue to keep him with me.”

“That sounds very noble, but there has to be other ways for you to do what you need to do,” I say logically.

“Neal, I was brought up knowing all about forgeries and counterfeiting. That was always our life and our livelihood, so that’s the avenue I’m choosing to take. Will you help me or not?”

“Do I really get a choice?” I want to know.

“This was all dumped in your lap very suddenly,” Del says carefully. “Be my guest while you give it some thought. Of course, I must insist that you stay here during that time because you now know much more than you should. The aides will see to your needs and we can talk again in a few days.”


	2. Stepping Off A Cliff

I am free to walk through the rooms of my new prison, and that’s exactly what I do for the next seven days under the close eye of one or the other of the aides. They make sure I’m provided with three meals a day, and somehow a duffle bag containing a collection of my casual clothes from June’s closet find their way into my bedroom here. I also discover new current novels on the night table beside the queen-size bed, as well as charcoals and sketchpads that I suppose are meant to keep me occupied. Although I have no phone or laptop for Internet access, there is a flat screen television in the living area that offers streaming as well as network programming. It is while watching the nightly news that I realize I have reached another milestone. My ‘escape’ has been documented by the talking heads, and I’m made aware that I’ve now regained my superstar status on the FBI’s Most Wanted List. I can’t help but wonder what Peter is thinking.

Perhaps what is most frustrating is the fact that Peter is so very close—actually only two miles away, as the crow flies. When I had first gazed out the window of what appears to be a very tall high-rise, I could just about make out a street sign below that says Bushwick Avenue, which is right in the heart of Brooklyn. I’m betting that the cross-street at the corner will say Beaver Street because I can also see a tiny pocket playground constructed for children. Peter and I would take this route sometimes on our way to Manhattan and I liked seeing the little kids scampering around Beaver Noll Park without a care in the world. When I was first abducted, my chaperones probably drove around aimlessly to disorient me even though it should have been a brief ten minute ride. Although Peter’s street, DeKalb Avenue, is within walking distance, it might as well be on the other side of the moon. There was no way I could elude my jailors. Finally, in boredom, I decide to venture into the workroom to try out a few tools. That is where Del finds me at the beginning of the following week.

“I knew you couldn’t hold out for long,” he says flashing his teeth. “The temptation in here is like a fully-stocked liquor store to an alcoholic.”

“Some of these things are pretty cool and amazing,” I reluctantly agree before I launch my next zinger. “I have to hand it to you, Del. Hiding in plain sight so close to the enemy was a ballsy thing to do. Do you relish keeping your friends close but your enemies closer?”

“Oh, but I’m not hiding, Neal. You are,” he says easily. “I’m sure that you are now aware that you are wanted in a very big way, but you’re still free to walk out the door if that is your decision. You could even run to your handler and lead him back to this place, but we’ll be long gone. Just so you know, I thought this through from the beginning and prudently arranged for the leasing agreement to have a pretty decent imitation of your signature—an alias, of course, but one well known to the FBI. Try talking your way out of that one.”

“Peter would never buy it,” I say flatly, although I have my doubts how far our trust issues can actually be stretched.

“Are you willing to take that chance?” Del asks earnestly.

When I don’t answer, he seems to take pity on me. “Look, my friend, the die has been cast. I callously took over engineering your life and your fate, so I feel I do owe you something. If you still don’t want to help me with the currency plate, I will make sure to spirit you away from New York and take you to the city of your choice anywhere in the States. It’s the least I can do. Of course, you won’t have a cent in your pockets, but I’m sure you can adapt. Now, if you choose to stay and make a passable plate, you’ll leave here a very rich man.”

“Is Peter Burke spearheading the search for me?” Suddenly that’s something that I really want to know.

“Yes, although my sources tell me he’s waffling a bit,” Del answers softly. “He’s still beating that drum that you were kidnapped.”

That statement confirms that this Irishman has ears within the Bureau, but, in the same token, it also gives me a little hope. Peter isn’t totally convinced that I ran so maybe I can get myself out of this predicament. But I’m going to have to give the performance of my life to pull it off. Then my primal id rears its ugly little head and asks why I want to go back to the status quo, which given present circumstances, might be iffy. I should be into self-preservation looking out for number one.

“Okay, I’ll try to make your plate,” I hear myself saying.

“Splendid,” Del says with that smile again. “But before you start down that path, you must convince me that you are really sincere. Tonight you’re going to call your handler and remove any doubts he may have about your intentions to be free. Make sure to feed him a few red herrings so that he starts chasing after phantoms.”

“Got it,” I reply succinctly, but I’m already plotting how I can provide some clues that puzzle master, Peter Burke, may be able to figure out.

~~~~~~~~~~

True to his word, Del reappears that evening with a cellphone in his hand. “This is a burner that can’t be traced or its location triangulated. Burke should be home by now, so punch in his number, put it on speaker mode, and let’s see how convincing you can be.”

Within seconds I hear a familiar rich baritone voice say in a rapid clipped tone, “Burke here, who’s calling me from this number?”

“Peter, it’s me,” I answer quickly.

“Neal, are you okay?” my former handler asks in a rush.

“Sure, Peter, I’m just peachy,” I reassure him. “In fact, I’m kinda like a kid on a sugar high running around a playground and having the time of my life.”

“Does that mean that you weren’t abducted, Neal, and you left of your own accord?” Peter asks slowly.

“Yep, I left,” I agree. “Do you know how many words there are for leaving, Mr. Crossword Puzzle Man? I actually consulted a thesauruses and found some really colorful ones like scramming, vamoosing, and skedaddling, but I personally like the term ‘booking it.’ Sounds catchy, doesn’t it—booking it out of Brooklyn? And it was all done right under your nose, Buddy.”

“Where are you, Neal?” Peter says evenly.

“Wouldn’t you like to figure that out,” I say. “You’re always such an eager beaver when you’re on a case. I’ll just bet you’re out beating the bush every day.”

“Neal, turn yourself in,” Peter says earnestly. “I’ll try to help you in any way I can.”

“Too late for that now,” I quickly say. “You may want to convince yourself that I’m still nearby, but trust me when I tell you I’m getting up close and personal with Michelangelo’s work right at the moment.”

“Neal, why now after all this time?” Peter asks and his tone breaks my heart.

“Well, I am my father’s son, so the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. The Caffreys are just a family of criminals doing the only thing we know how to do and have always done.”

Peter fails to rise to the challenge, and, when the horrible silence lingers, I put an end to both of our suffering by disconnecting.

“Well done, Neal,” Del tells me, oblivious to the pitiful innuendos that I tried to incorporate into my conversation with someone who is now probably in the category of “former” friend. Would Peter somehow make a connection to those obtuse references and partial words. Would he even think of the playground we often passed on the corner of _Beaver_ Street and _Bush_ wick Avenue and realize that I had used those very words within my sentences? Was _“booking it”_ too far a stretch to connect the dots to a former book dealer? Maybe the reference to _“Michelangelo”_ might twig his recall and he’d remember I had used it to describe John Killbride. And maybe I was just a fool and hoping for the impossible.

~~~~~~~~~~

Well, as Del had previously said, the die was cast and I had made a pact with the devil. It was time to get with the program. I now spend most of my time in the workroom wearing magnifying glasses and wielding little styluses. I’m actually enjoying myself because I’m in my element doing what I love to do, maybe what I was always meant to do. I know that I’m good at counterfeiting, and now I’m striving to be the best. Perhaps staying on the straight and narrow had always been Peter’s pipedream that I had bought into. Maybe I’m finally realizing who the real Neal Caffrey is.

Del comes by every night to view my progress and we usually spend the evening sitting on the couch in the living room talking while we sip some mighty smooth Irish whiskey.

“How’s your father holding up?” I ask him tonight.

Del sighs. “Dad is a proud man and it’s hard for him to accept that he can no longer be independent. He feels that if he’s not useful, then what’s the sense in going on.”

“That must be hard for you,” I commiserate.

“Yeah, it is,” he agrees. “When I picture my father from years gone by, I remember a vibrant and talented man who loved books and creating magnificent and intricate drawings. He could make a picture of anything, and the walls of my room were always full of superheroes and mythological creatures that had flowed from his pen. Now he’s just a shadow of that person and he wants to give up because he thinks he’s a burden to me. How can a man who raised me singlehandedly think I’d ever consider him to be a burden? He’s the only family I have and I’ll love him even after the end comes.”

I say nothing because I’m thinking of my own father who had no redeeming qualities. I can’t convince myself that he ever loved me, so there’s a void in my heart when he comes to mind. Would I be willing to help him if he ever came to me and needed something? I don’t want to think about that right now, so, instead, I deflect.

“You’re a good son,” is all I can think to say to this dedicated man sitting opposite me. I have to admire him for shouldering such a heavy familial responsibility.

“Thanks for that sentiment,” Del says morosely, “although I haven’t accomplished much to help my Dad. I’ve tried to get him into a US sponsored drug trial for a new Parkinson’s medicine a pharmaceutical company is developing, but he’s been turned down because of his age. It’s like if you make it to your Golden Years, they just want you to curl up and die. If I had the money, I could take him abroad and buy him a chance with a foreign drug company. There are other trials going on worldwide, and you just need the resources to grease a few palms to get in.”

“I’m sure you’re doing the best you can for him,” I say softly.

“You got family, Neal?” Del asks.

“Not anymore,” I whisper. “Everyone’s gone from my life,” even Peter I don’t add, who was the closest thing to a family I had come to have in a very long time.


	3. Meeting the Master

Several weeks roll by and I’m so invested in my delicate project that I fail to notice that the season has changed and new, tiny leaves are beginning to form nubs at the end of tree branches. I’m now convinced that Peter never figured out my arcane clues and has probably given over my pursuit to Interpol. Del still comes by every night, and I begin to wonder if it is for my benefit or his. I suspect that he is probably as lonely as I am. We’ve gotten to know each other on a superficial level, and maybe, in another lifetime, we might have become friends. Then I remind myself that this is strictly a business arrangement that will end if I can only get the job done right. I’m having a lot of trouble incorporating exactly the right images into that blue hologram strip and I’m frustrated. Del immediately senses my agitation and makes a suggestion.

“You need a break, my friend,” he says warmly. “Maybe a change of scene will do you some good. Want to take a ride?”

“Away from here?” I ask in amazement.

“Yeah, away from here,” Del echoes. “I think, after all this time, I can trust you. I doubt anyone would be on the lookout for you in a Fed’s neighborhood, and there’s someone I want you to meet. He needs cheering up just like you, so let’s take the plate that you’re working on and show it to my Dad. It might raise his spirits because you’re a fresh face that he can regale with old tales of his glory days. Maybe the two of you can compare notes, one talented artisan to another. It might make him happy, and that’s never a bad thing in my world.”

It is only Del and I who drive out from the underground garage in an aged Honda Accord. We head for the Bronx and finally arrive at an older neighborhood with little clapboard houses most likely built during the fifties. These were probably once proud residences—forever homes constructed after soldiers returning from WWII took advantage of a GI loan. They stand, shoulder to shoulder, in an orderly formation along the street, some with old bulky antennas still sitting on shingled roofs, and most with ancient air conditioners shoved into the bottom half of double-hung windows. There are sagging front porches with aluminum awnings, and rusted chain link fences that separate miniscule front yards just beginning to sprout dandelions. Del parks at the curb of one in the middle of the block, only a little different from the others because it has a handicapped ramp leading up the two cement steps to the front door.

“Be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home,” Del murmurs as he turns to me with a melancholy shadow of his smile.

He uses his key and we enter a tiny living room with a musty smell. One of the now familiar aides is sitting on a threadbare sofa watching a baseball game on an old console television. He stands when he sees us and tells us his patient is in bed but probably still awake.

“Why don’t you take a break, George, and go get yourself a slice of pizza or something,” Del instructs. “I’ll stay with Dad for a while.”

Del then beckons to me and we go down a shotgun hall to a tiny bedroom where a wizened old man is seated in bed with a book before him propped on a stand. The space has all the trappings of an invalid’s domain—a white commode sitting in a corner, a folded-up wheelchair, a lap tray for meals, pill bottles lined up on a bedside table, and a smell that anyone who has ever visited a nursing home would recognize right away. The occupant lying under the covers looks up at us, and a broad smile, so much like his son’s, blossoms on his face.

“Del, my boy, it seems that you have brought a guest tonight,” he says warmly with a bit of a Gaelic brogue making the words sound almost musical as they roll off his tongue.

“Indeed I have,” Del says proudly. “Dad, this is Neal Caffrey.”

I reach out a hand and John Killbride clasps it in both of his. I can feel the tremors run up my wrist and I realize how bad the Parkinson’s has gotten.

“Sir, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” I say.

“You’re the new me,” the old gent chuckles in delight.

“Not hardly,” I object. “John Killbride is a legend and I can’t hold a candle to your expertise.”

Now the old man is really laughing. “Even if I didn’t know you were Irish with a name like Caffrey, I’d still recognize that silver tongued blarney for what it is—an Irishman’s gift of gab.”

Now I’m smiling along with him as he indicates a chair beside the bed. “Come, sit—we probably have so much in common to talk about. Del can make us some tea to lubricate our jaws so that we can keep them flapping. If we play our cards right, he may even add a little hair of the dog into the brew,” he adds as he gives me an exaggerated conspiratorial wink.

I take my seat and point to the book he is reading, a well-worn copy of Alexandre Dumas’ _The Three Musketeers._ “An oldie but a goodie,” I remark.

“You can’t beat the classics,” he says and I suddenly feel a pang cut through my heart because Kate always loved the classics.

Perhaps Killbride notices my pained look, or maybe he doesn’t, but, nonetheless, he changes the subject. “Did you know that my son holds a degree in classical literature?” he informs me out of the blue.

“No, I didn’t,” I answer honestly. Del and I have discussed many things, but his background has always remained rather vague.

“It’s true,” Killbride says proudly. “Of course, like any good son, initially he wanted to follow in my illustrator footsteps, but unfortunately, the poor boy couldn’t draw a straight line to save his immortal soul. So, he embraced my other passion, the wonderful world of literature. He earned himself a college sheepskin and taught English Lit to high schoolers who probably never appreciated what he tried to impart. In the long run, it didn’t matter because the classic arts have been abandoned by the public school system only to be replaced by the cold realm of technology. That makes my son an unemployable anachronism. But the real tragedy concerns young minds who will never have the opportunity to know great authors like James Joyce, Thomas Hardy, or ‘The Bard,’ himself, William Shakespeare. Being useless affected my boy, and it destroyed his marriage. When I was first diagnosed with this infernal disease, he found a new calling, and that was dedicating himself to taking care of me. He should be running my old bookstore, not being a nursemaid. Books are good for the soul.”

“I agree with you,” I find myself nodding. “I was a voracious reader when I was a kid, and the world of books took me away to stupendous, magical places.”

“Perhaps that was a way to escape painful or lonely circumstances,” Killbride says softly, like a wise old psychic.

When I look uncomfortable, he again changes the subject. “I hear that you’re an art aficionado in more ways than one. Care to tell me about some of your greatest forgeries and perhaps the occasional scam so that I can live vicariously? You show me yours and I’ll show you mine,” he says as he points to what appears to be a thick scrapbook on a nearby dresser.

And so I do, even after the tea Del has delivered has grown cold in its cup. A hovering son has vanished at some point, giving the old man and I privacy to swap ancient war stories. I find that I’m really enjoying myself and I don’t want this night to end.

“Your expertise over the years of your illegal romp around the world must have been very lucrative for you,” Del begins a thought, “but it was never about the money, was it?”

“Not really,” I shrug as I wonder if this old guy really is clairvoyant.

Killbride’s face softens as he reminisces. “I see a lot of myself in you, Neal. Great artists recognize kindred spirits. At first, we do what we do because it’s necessary. We’re hungry, we have to pay the rent, and we have to provide for the ones we love. Then it’s like a beautiful siren is luring us to do what other people can’t. It’s challenging to get away with something because we’re experts, and we keep striving to be better and better at our craft. One might say it’s an addiction. But it’s glory and validation we covet, not drugs or amazing wealth. Perhaps, along the way, we don’t see the cherished individuals we are hurting in our quest for the Holy Grail.”

“I don’t think Del feels that you have ever hurt him,” I say in rebuttal. “He loves you and wants to do what he thinks is right and necessary.”

The old man sighs deeply. “Ah, Del is my whole world. He is now the polestar in my universe just as I was once his. He thinks money will fix all of this,” the old man says as his trembling hand sweeps in a stuttering arc. “He wants something better for me when this is all I’ve ever wanted. Did you know that this is the house that I bought when my son and I first came to America? The name on the deed is Sean Killbride, but I always went by John after I arrived here. I wanted to appear more Anglicized in my new country, or perhaps I was laying to rest my Irish roots. This little cottage was our oasis after such great tragedy in the land of my birth. Over the years of my forgeries and counterfeiting, the authorities never made the connection. I could have moved up in the world during those first forays into literary knock-offs, maybe bought a brownstone on Park Avenue. But I loved my little bookstore with its dusty old written treasures and I loved my little white shingled house with its cheerful red door here in the middle of the block. Like I said, it was never about money.”

After a bit of a lull, I quietly admit, “I’m not sure that I can come through for him.”

“So you’re having trouble with the new project, that $100 plate,” he murmurs knowledgeably.

“I am,” I confess. “I’m trying, but it isn’t easy.”

“No, it’s impossible,” Killbride replies succinctly. “You’ll never beat that blue security strip. Have you told him that yet?”

“No, I haven’t,” I reply with a bit of sadness creeping into a voice I tried to keep neutral.

“You should. Then maybe he can get on with his life and stop chasing that pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. No amount of money can fix me, and Del has to stop trying to shadowbox with a disease. Perhaps it’s my fault for not aging gracefully and accepting what can’t be changed, when what I really should be doing is rejoicing in the wonderful life I’ve led.”

“They never caught you,” I say with a grin.

“Nope, they never did,” he cackles softly.

It is at that moment that Del reenters the room looking tense. “I just got a heads up from George. He told me that our other aide called him from a payphone to say a SWAT team has swarmed into the Brooklyn apartment complex and is going door to door with search warrants in their hands. I don’t know how they figured it out, but it’s only a matter of time before they get to ours and see all that counterfeiting equipment.”

Unfortunately, I do know how they figured it out. It took him quite a while, but a dogged Federal Agent, who knows me so well, probably put the pieces together. However, one thing puzzles me. Peter is well aware of all my previous aliases, so he should recognize any of them on a leasing agreement. So why are the cops going door-to-door in that high rise when he could lead them directly to the right one? Then I have an epiphany. My previous handler is giving me time to make an escape yet again, and I suddenly realize what a true friend he is. I’ve never felt more appreciative or undeserving in my life.

Of course, I don’t share this personal information with either man. I merely look up at Del’s anxious face and try to settle him down. “Stay calm, my friend. You rented the apartment in the name of one of my aliases, so it can’t be tied back to you. Besides, you brought the plate with you so they’ll have no idea what I was trying to create.”

“But you can’t finish it without the proper tools and machinery. A completed plate is my Dad’s last hope for a future,” Del states what he thinks is the obvious.

“Tell him,” John Killbride urges me to take the next step.

And so I obey after drawing a deep breath. I look a concerned son in the eye and deliver much worse news. “I would never have been able to finish it because it’s impossible to do.”

Del isn’t buying it. “You’re Neal Caffrey, so nothing’s impossible for you.”

“He’s telling you the truth, although it’s not what you want to hear,” a father says softly to his offspring. “It’s over, Del. Just accept defeat gracefully.”


	4. An End Or A Beginning?

I tactfully retreat from the room to give a father and son time to talk. In the living area, I spy an old landline phone, harvest gold in color, tethered to a wall outlet and currently resting in its cradle on a side table by the sofa. I lift the receiver without hesitation and punch in a number which is answered on the first ring. There ensues a long discussion about tactics and repercussions until, finally, everything gets ironed out to my satisfaction. I have done everything I can to set the future in motion and, unexpectedly, I feel at peace with my decision. I don’t know, at this juncture, if my actions are right or wrong, but this is what I have chosen to do because it feels right in my heart.

Del has not come out of his father’s room, so I pad softly up to the door and find him stretched out on the bed with one arm around his father’s frail shoulders. I hate to intrude on this intimate moment, but there are things that need to be said.

“May I speak with both of you?” I ask deferentially.

“Of course, Neal, come in,” John Killbride says invitingly.

I take the chair I had previously occupied and stare at the pair with an earnest expression. “I may have an option for both of you, but it has to be your choice if that is the way you want to go.”

“Okay,” Del says suspiciously, “lay it out for us.”

I take a deep breath and step out on a very narrow ledge. “I took the liberty of using your phone to call someone who could play a pivotal role in a plan I can set in motion if it is what each of you wants. That someone has some very impressive talents of his own, and he is ready to begin what could be the focus of a new life for the Killbrides.”

“Stop talking in riddles,” Del says irritably.

“Okay, I will,” I agree. “This associate of mine is quite capable of providing new identities for both of you, which include birth certificates, passports, driver’s licenses, credit cards—the whole basis of a new beginning. All you’ll need to do is take a few selfies of your faces and send them to his phone so that the passports and driver’s licenses look accurate.” I then hand Del a piece of paper with Mozzie’s bat phone number, which he will most assuredly deactivate after this little caper.

“Give him a few days to get the documents ready,” I instruct. “You’ll be safe enough here until that happens. I don’t want to know either of your new names, and I’ve told my associate to never divulge them to me or anyone else. After that preliminary grunt work is done, you’ll get an email containing two sets of numbers. They will be the numbers for a locker and its combination located in Grand Central Station. Inside the designated locker will be your new identities, a substantial amount of cash, and, lastly, two open-ended airline tickets to Switzerland where an apartment rented in your new names will be waiting for you. According to the research my friend has done, a Swiss hospital has been using a new breakthrough protocol with stem cells to treat Parkinson’s Disease. This technique is relatively new, but they welcome additional volunteer patients who are willing to give it a try.”

Del looks skeptical. “What does this friend of yours want in return? Nobody does something of this magnitude out of the goodness of his heart.”

“He’d like the unfinished currency plate,” I smile.

Now John Killbride looks confused. “But what good is it to him? You and I both know it can’t ever pass for an authentic one.”

Now I smile even broader. “My associate is the quintessential optimist. Others may call him a dreamer or a kook. I just call him my friend.”

“Dad?” Del says earnestly.

When Killbride doesn’t answer, I step up to the plate. “I know it will be hard for you, John, to leave a place that has been home to you for probably half a century. But once, long ago, you were brave and determined enough to cross an ocean to start a new life. You did that for your son. Do it again for him now.”

Suddenly, it is Del who is doing the cajoling. “C’mon, Dad, what do you say? Let’s just leave all this behind us. I’m not going to force you to go to some hospital and try out a new treatment if you don’t want to. I realize now that it should be about what you want, not about me or my dreams for you.”

Before John Killbride answers, he stares into my eyes. “What about you, Neal? I know you’re the one making this miracle happen and we can never repay that debt.”

“It’s like we discussed earlier,” I say. “It’s never about the money.”

“But what will your future be? My son has made you a wanted man, so the days ahead will undoubtedly be bleak. You’ll always be on the run looking over your shoulder and that doesn’t seem right or fair.”

“I’m sure we can all agree that life is never fair,” I murmur softly. “But don’t worry about me or my future. I’ve had a lot of practice evading the law. It will all come back to me like riding a bike.”

“Thank you,” the old man says gratefully as he stretches out tremoring hands to grasp mine.

~~~~~~~~~~

The Fates must be in a good mood because, for once, everything goes like clockwork. Moz does his thing while I stay under the radar. I was right—it was like riding a bike. I blithely swan around Manhattan without anyone casting a suspicious look in my direction. I’m almost disappointed with law enforcement. When I get a text from my associate informing me that he has personally watched a Swiss International jumbo jet take off from JFK with two very special passengers on board, I take the next step. I cab it uptown to the Federal Building and approach the sentry at the front desk in the lobby. I paste a warm smile on my face and ask politely, “Would you please call upstairs to Agent Peter Burke in the White Collar Division and tell him an old friend is waiting for him in the lobby.”


End file.
